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By Root 486 0

all the possible meanings, all the possible ghosts, from demons and the spirits of the dead to gods of rocks, trees and earth. I think about the magicians who still know the old religion, the rituals from before the arrival of Buddhism over twelve hundred years ago. They are said to be able to summon the spirits and send them off to do their bidding—bring hailstones to flatten crops, dry up rivers and wombs, suck out someone’s life force, cause madness, disease and death. I can no longer say, “I don’t believe in ghosts and black magic.” Everyone around me believes. Even the other foreigners are unsure. A Canadian teacher in Dremitse awoke to see green lights dancing at the foot of her bed, a British teacher saw a child temporarily possessed by the distraught spirit of a dead uncle, the teachers who lived in this flat before me reported voices coming from empty rooms, too close and distinct to be from outside or downstairs. I heard these stories in Thimphu, ages ago, when I could still say, “Nonsense.” If, as Buddhism teaches, separateness is an illusion, if we all partake in and help create a much vaster reality than we can know, then everything is interdependent, and anything is possible. The rain grows heavier, a thunderous roar, the hair on the back of my neck stands up, and I am cold. I light every candle and lamp I have, and sit with Norbu and Karma Dorji until they fall asleep at the table.

The rain stops, and I wake Norbu and Karma and put a mattress on the floor for them. They curl up under a blanket, and I stand in the doorway, watching their small faces relax into sleep. I must squeeze my eyes tightly to stop the tears. If I feel this sad leaving Pema Gatshel after five months, I cannot imagine how I will feel leaving Bhutan after two years.

Peak of Higher Learning

If there is a

paradise on the

face of the earth,

It is this, oh!

it is this, oh!

it is this.

Sliced Bread

The college truck swings off the main road through a gate, stopping outside a row of white two-story houses separated by well-tended gardens. Four young men step out of the shadows of a cypress tree. “Good evening, ma’am,” they say, bowing gracefully before heaving my hockey bags out of the truck and carting them off. I am struck by how neatly they are dressed: the folds of their ghos are perfectly straight, their white collars and cuffs are immaculate, and they are all wearing dark knee-highs and polished shoes. The vice-principal, a soft-spoken man in a plain navy-blue gho, appears with a ring of keys. “Welcome to Sherubtse College,” he says. “We’re very glad to have you here. Shall I show you to your quarters?”

I follow him over a wooden footbridge. “Here we are,” he says, stopping outside the last house. “Each house has four flats. The upstairs flats have balconies, which are quite nice, but the downstairs ones have gardens. I prefer a garden.” He opens the door to the downstairs apartment, and we file into a sitting room. I stand gawking at the peach-colored walls, the fireplace, the bookshelves, the divans with rose-colored cushions. There is another fireplace in the bedroom, a white-tiled toilet, shower room, dining room, and a kitchen with cupboards.

“I hope these quarters will be adequate,” the vice-principal says. “They’re very simple, of course, but if there’s anything you would like us to do to make them more comfortable, please let us know.”

Is he kidding? After my place in Pema Gatshel, this looks like a spread from Better Homes and Gardens.

In the sitting room, the four students who carried my luggage are examining my keyboard with interest. I smile, remembering how class II C had subsided into an awed silence the first time they saw it. Karma Dorji had pressed a key gingerly, and they had all backed up, startled at the sound. Zai, yallama! What is inside, miss?

“That’s an electronic piano,” I inform the four college students.

“Casio or Yamaha?” one asks. “What’s the voltage?”

“Uh, Yamaha.”

The vice-principal clears his throat and the students bow again. “Thank you,” I say.

“Thank you, ma‘am. Good night,